


Do thy worst old time

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is weak for Aziraphale, Cute, Fluff, Love, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV God (Good Omens), Prompt Fic, Shakespeare, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: The bookshop needs painting.Crowley is seriously considering a miracle to find out the colours because come on already angel! You’re taking forever when Aziraphale does something rather unexpected.“Angel?”“Hmm.”“What are you doing?”





	Do thy worst old time

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a prompt for Aziraphale tempting Crowley and it uhm... got away from me. I don't regret that fact however. I'm quite pleased with this.

The bookshop needs painting. Well, it doesn’t. The paintjob it’d had in the early twentieth century is still good—in Crowley’s opinion—but it seems that Aziraphale feels it needs a little updating[1]. Crowley’s suggestions of colours are all clearly ignored by the angel who putters about the bookshop, arranging books here and there so they are out of the way of the paint. A roller and some rather nice looking brushes are on a small side-table with two tubs of paint in shades Aziraphale refuses to allow Crowley to see just yet.

Crowley is seriously considering a miracle to find out the colours because _come on already angel! You’re taking forever_ when Aziraphale does something rather unexpected.

He removes his coat.

“Angel?”

“Hmm.”

“What are you doing?” Crowley is rather proud of the way his voice doesn’t catch or waver and is exceptionally thankful he’s still wearing his sunglasses—thank someone for the sunshine today—because he is rather shamelessly staring at Aziraphale calmly placing his coat on the back of a chair.

“Well I can’t exactly decorate with my coat on now, can I?” Aziraphale gives Crowley the look one usually receives when the person they’re talking to thinks they’ve asked a rather stupid question; one with a clearly obvious answer that doesn’t need stating aloud. “I’d hate to get paint on it.”

“You’re an angel, you can literally miracle it away,” Crowley points out, shifting on the sofa he’s claimed as his ever since the bookshop opened.

Aziraphale frowns at him. “But I’d know the stain was there,” he says and that’s a pout on his face, the same pout Crowley has seen on Aziraphale’s face when the angel wants something but won’t actually _ask_ Crowley for whatever it is. It’s the Please Indulge Me pout and Crowley <strike>hates</strike> loves it fiercely.

Crowley lets his head flop back so he can’t see Aziraphale anymore, the gesture hopefully conveying to Aziraphale that Crowley is done with his behaviour rather than overwhelmed by looking at his angel without his coat. It’s- it’s- it’s _obscene_ really. Aziraphale without a coat on. The soft beige tone of his overcoat is something Crowley has actually found rather pleasant to see and he’s long grown used to Aziraphale always wearing it.

Without it, the angel seems—if Crowley were ever to admit it aloud—rather vulnerable. Meek. Mild. Things that Aziraphale must assuredly is _not_.

He stares up at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring the sounds of Aziraphale making his way about the bookshop, the noise of the roller in the paint-tray, the scrape of paint-bristles on the wall. They blend together in a gentle sort of melody, a calming tune that has Crowley relaxing into the sofa more and more until his body does that thing where it twitches in an awkward way and brings you right back to alertness.

Crowley lifts his head, easing the ache in the back of his neck from having his head back for so long, and looks in the direction of the working melody he’s been lulled by. He’s greeted by the sight of Aziraphale standing on a small set of ladders, the type with only two steps, body stretched as he reaches the edges of the wall and spreads paint along the top—cutting in, humans call it. Aziraphale is, for an angel, not quite as fit as he probably ought to be according to Gabriel the fucking archangel who thinks the perfect form for an angel is himself. Crowley finds Gabriel to be actually quite repulsive. He’s a demon, he can sense sin and Gabriel—oh so mighty and bright and Holy Gabriel—is _brimming_ with sins both big and small. It makes the archangel repugnant for Crowley who is of the opinion than an angel should be—well—_Holy_ and good and kind and strong. All the things that Aziraphale just so happens to be[2].

But back to the view Crowley has of Aziraphale right now. It _should_ be fine—it’s a view Crowley can somewhat appreciate with the safe distance of being on the sofa away from the object of his gaze, secure that at least he won’t make an utter fool of himself with his gawping—but unfortunately for Crowley, it seems that the universe has decided to both tempt and destroy him in one swift act. Namely, Aziraphale with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, wrists and forearms naked for all the world to see, and two top buttons of his shirt at the neck undone to allow him to breathe better without his bowtie in the way. It is, Crowley can admit, a mesmerising sight, but it is also a sight that has Crowley hissing out at the flare of Desire that flashes in his body, making him want to reach out with his long fingers and touch that lovely revealed skin.

Such behaviour is most unbecoming of a demon but _very_ typical for Crowley and, thus, the demon known as Crowley is stuck staring helplessly at a decadent-looking principality who has _no_ _idea_ the affect and effect he has on said demon.

Or that’s what Crowley _thinks_ at least.

_Outside_ of the perspective of Crowley, the demon from hell who is a serpent and creator of original sin, it is much easier to witness the fact that Aziraphale, principality and guardian of the eastern gate of Eden, is very much aware of the effect he’s having on the demon Crowley. It is, to put it bluntly, very entertaining for an all-seeing, all-knowing being to witness. A good way of passing the time that unfortunately had to be made in order for mortality to be a thing.

The only thing the omnipotent and omnipresent being is missing is some popcorn but creating popcorn out of nothing can be a bit hit-or-miss[3].

Due to the demise of Crowley’s only braincell, it is easy for the demon to miss the way Aziraphale subtly glances at the reflection of said demon in the window to the angel’s right; a window that provides a fantastic view of Crowley on the sofa at an angle it otherwise shouldn’t be able to provide. But that’s what miracles are for, aren’t they?

Aziraphale, meanwhile, is seriously contemplating calling for Crowley’s assistance just moments before he has to stretch a little further to reach a little higher with the paintbrush. The principality had considered simply miracling the bookshop painted but had, ultimately, decided otherwise after one evening at the Ritz when he’d noticed Crowley’s rather distracted focus on his wrist when Aziraphale had spilt his wine and fussed over the ruined cuff of his sleeve. Crowley’s eyes, actually on display for once due to Aziraphale’s insistence, had been quite dilated—almost like a cat’s actually—and the golden ember colour bled beyond the usual limits Crowley allowed it.

Aziraphale, that evening, had come to a series of conclusions regarding Crowley that have led to this moment in the bookshop wherein his dear friend is currently a useless heap of feelings on the sofa while Aziraphale steadily redecorates his bookshop. It is, considering everything, a case of “two birds, one stone” considering Aziraphale has been fretting over how to broach this Issue with his long-time friend and… something else, but has dithered rather typically over the nature of how and when.

Removing several layers, rolling up his sleeves, and undoing buttons at his throat has been remarkable effective in leaving Crowley in such a state that Aziraphale is wondering if it was a good idea to possibly rile the demon up so with so little warning on his part. But then, of course, the principality turns his head and catches Crowley’s gaze—even through sunglasses, Aziraphale always knows when he and Crowley are looking each other in the eye—and makes the split-second decision that yes, yes it is a good idea and no, no he shan’t stop any time soon.

From the tertiary perspective here, we can witness the exact moment Aziraphale makes that decision and the rather lustful tint to those angelic blue eyes that has Crowley’s body burning even more than it was before although Crowley himself consciously misses the lustful tint. The benefit of having a subconscious smarter than you, apparently, is that it reads cues and responds accordingly long before your singular braincell is capable of even noticing said cues.

It is a good thing Crowley is the curious sort by nature lest he be even more dysfunctional than he already is. And it is also a good thing that Aziraphale is just enough of a bastard to recognise this fact and utilise it at the most opportune of moments.

“Crowley, you know you _could_ help,” Aziraphale says, loudly and pointedly, with an arched brow and Crowley—dear, awkward Crowley—makes a rather amusing sound that has Aziraphale wishing to smile. He doesn’t, but he does quite wish to, if only because Crowley has such a _look_ on his face and it’s ever so amusing. Endearing, even.

“I- uh- angel,” Crowley says, as though that is a coherent response although, considering it’s from Crowley, that _is _a coherent response. Either way, it forces Aziraphale to roll his eyes at Crowley who seems to find the act something else to make sounds over. “Right.”

“Really Crowley, what _has_ gotten into you?” Aziraphale asks innocently. He’s not at all innocent or apologetic but it is entertaining nonetheless to pretend he’s oblivious to the effect he has on Crowley. “You seem all out of sorts dear.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. How fantastically eloquent of Crowley. Truly.

“As always, dear, I’m in awe of your commend of the verbal word,” Aziraphale drawls and he sees the moment Crowley’s brain kicks him, recognising he’s being insulted, and the angel bites the inside of his mouth to avoid smiling. Trust Crowley to come back from wherever his mind has wandered off because of an insult.

“Oi! I’m- I’m plenty good with words, angel!” Crowley sits forward on the sofa, shoulder blades up, chest arched, head positioned in the way Aziraphale has witnessed snakes do in the past. Predatory posture. It’s ever so enticing for Crowley to do that—makes Aziraphale’s own instincts flare a little.

Crowley has his tendency for all things serpent but Aziraphale has a certain fondness for all things avian. It makes their relationship all the more surprising and endlessly fascinating. Any omnipresent and omnipotent being would find themselves naturally caught up in examining and analysing such a connection even if said connection weren’t between an angel and a demon who helped thwart the end of the world.

“Old Shakespeare wasn’t anywhere near as gifted as them historians like to think!” Crowley scoffs. “Gave him half his bloody sonnets myself.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale gives him a look, purposefully pausing in his painting to lower the paintbrush and he’s very aware of how Crowley’s eyes follow his arms, the way the demon’s chest heaves a little harder than it typically does and the angel _smiles_. “I don’t believe you ever mentioned that.”

“Well- uh-” Crowley fumbles. “I- didn’t think you’d be interested,” the demon finishes lamely.

“I am.”

Aziraphale places the paintbrush on the tray, a minor miracle ensuring it won’t get all painty on the handle or dry out and descends the little two-step ladder. The angel crosses the space of the bookshop, intimately aware of how Crowley’s mouth opens a little, tongue barely darting out past those teeth of his and Aziraphale remembers reading about how snakes smell. They use their _tongue_.

With a thud of his heart, Aziraphale sits down primly beside Crowley who shifts automatically, instinctively, to accommodate the angel beside him. A snap of fingers and they both have a cup of tea each—Aziraphale is uncertain that wine would be a good idea at the moment; though he is _tempted_.

Crowley gulps the tea while Aziraphale politely sips at it, the angel watching the way the demon goes at the cup like one would go at water when dying of thirst. He waits just long enough for Crowley to gain some measure of control over himself before purposefully reaching out and laying a hand on Crowley’s arm, a little bit vindictively pleased at the way Crowley shudders beneath his hand.

“Share one of those sonnets that are yours?” He asks though it’s more of a command because Crowley—for all that the demon insists he is a demon and evil and thus obeys no one—has always caved to Aziraphale’s demands; usually with some whining and complaining but seldom has Crowley refused him. Now is another time where Crowley caves to Aziraphale and it probably has more to do with the way Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking lightly on the smooth material of Crowley’s sleeve, his golden-pale skin offset beautifully against the dark black of Crowley’s clothes.

“’kay.”

This is the point, readers, where things Change with a capital C for both angel and demon. Perhaps it’s the metaphorical dropping of a penny, or some other metaphor that conveys the sense of realisation, but both Aziraphale and Crowley recognise the Shift in their relationship at this very point in time. It is a point that they will both think back on in years to come and smile rather goofily. At this precise point however, we have Crowley beginning to blush, fingers fidgeting with the fine bone china cup in his hand, while Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s face and his thumb continues to stroke the soft fabric of Crowley’s sleeve. It’s an intimate, emotive scene and ever so suited to admissions through poetry if I do say so myself.

_“Devouring time, blunt tho the lion's paws,_

_And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;_

_Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's Jaws,_

_And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood._

_Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,_

_And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time._

_To the wide world and all her fading sweets._

_But I forbid thee one most heinous crime;_

_O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,_

_Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen._

_Him in thy course untainted do allow_

_For beauty's pattern to succeeding men._

_ Yet do they worst, old time; despite thy wrong_

_ My love shall in my verse ever live young.”_

* * *

* * *

[1] Considering how out of date Aziraphale himself happens to be, it’s no stretch of the imagination to assume he means a slight change in the shade on the walls to update it by a ten year margin or something else equally out-dated in the eyes of the modern world today.

[2] Gabriel’s hypocrisy when it comes to the Ideal Angel Form is no where more apparent than when you look at Sandalphon who is short, snivelly and less appealing to look at than a sack of rubble dumped in the Tiber. Crowley has stated this to Aziraphale before, multiple times and rather directly, over some wine and thus has witnessed the amazing sight of Aziraphale spitting out his wine and laughing himself silly. Crowley isn’t quite sure what is quite so amusing about his derision of Sandalphon but it amuses Aziraphale and he’s okay with not quite understanding when Aziraphale is happy.

[3] Last time there was the matter of an accidental earthquake and we wouldn’t want that to happen again now, would we?

**Author's Note:**

> I got a book that's the complete works of Shakespeare and kind of lost it reading the sonnets because they are _all_ such Crowley/Aziraphale energy and I am WEAK.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos sustain me :)


End file.
